


from this minute now

by Somedeepmystery



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergent, Doomsday, Gen, It has a Happy Ending Though, Magical Realism, Separation, as might pertain to a terminal illness, dark themes, i swear to you it does, is this magical realism?, not a full AU, references to ending one's life on one's own terms, something like magical realism, team as family but they broke it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29592057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedeepmystery/pseuds/Somedeepmystery
Summary: A mysterious device is wreaking havoc across the globe. Napoleon Solo is tasked with seeking out his former partners to bring an end to the devastation. Relationships are in tatters, emotions are high, and the only solution they have could turn out to be more dangerous than the device they are trying to stop.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller
Comments: 41
Kudos: 31





	1. An Unsanctioned Appointment

**Author's Note:**

> Do I know what magical realism is? *laughs* This little thing has been sitting in my WIP folder for over two years! I admit I laughed when I realized I had basically used a global illness for my driving force but, hey, it's kind of a spy genre staple, right? Short chapters but will update quickly! Thanks to diadema, turningleaf and sydneymo for betaing -- I then proceeded to change _a lot_ so all mistakes are definitely My Own.

The flare of a match lit up Waverly’s face in a booth near the back, and Solo started toward him, cutting his way through the crowd of patrons that filled the rundown rathskeller. The rise and fall of conversation filled Solo’s ears, the voices anxious, edged with a buzz of fear, a hum of desperation. Upbeat music spilled from a jukebox in the corner, but no one was dancing. 

This was the same dark undercurrent he had been feeling for weeks. In every room, on every street. Tonight, he brushed the intruding aura aside, blocking the cloud of anxiety the best he could. 

The tip of a cigarette glowed orange as he reached the corner booth, revealing the familiar lines of Waverly’s face. The glow brightened on an inhale. Based on their location, Solo would have laid a bet that it wasn’t tobacco. 

He looked his former boss over as he settled into his seat, surprised as always that, even here in this dive, the man didn’t seem out of place. Even in his three-piece suit. It was his gift—to be only as remarkable as he needed to be. He used it well. 

“Hello again, Solo,” Waverly said, setting his hand down on the tabletop, the cigarette between two fingers. “Happy to see you in good health.”

“Same here, Sir.” In fact, Solo realized, it pleased him more than he wanted to admit. To see the man again, to see him well. It called back to happier, though messier, times. “How have you been?”

“Busy, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Solo couldn’t help but grin. “I _do_ hear about it occasionally.”

Waverly’s return smile was unapologetic. UNCLE had been a thorn in the side of the CIA, the KGB, the SIS and every other intelligence agency, since its inception. With recent events, their interference had become even more pronounced. Solo couldn’t deny the flare of pride he felt every time he heard that UNCLE had thwarted one agency’s or another’s plans to gain world dominating technology, even though his own organization had pulled him from the Network years ago.

“It is good to know we are getting our message out,” Waverly remarked. “If not _across_ , as it were.” He took another long drag from his cigarette. “However, I didn’t summon you here for small talk.” 

“Can’t say I am surprised to hear that.”

Waverly pushed a newspaper toward Solo. It was open to the second page and his eyes caught on a bold typed headline about recent human experiments uncovered in the jungle. In the article below, the words “fire” and “rage” stood out, and he looked up.

“Someone is trying to recreate it.” His voice was flat, grim. 

Waverly’s response was a subtle nod. 

Solo pulled the paper closer and read a little deeper. “Who? And why the escalation? This is — unconscionable.”

“Because of the Orb.”

Solo frowned at the paper and sat back. “Is that what we are calling that thing?”

“I have managed to put UNCLE at the center of the investigation. It’s only vulnerability—” he paused, watching Solo cautiously. “Is intense heat. Levels impossible to maintain without—”

Solo’s eyes flashed up to Waverly’s, his jaw going tight. “I don’t know where he is.”

Aged blue eyes centered on him. “No?”

“I have to admit, it chafes a bit.” The American sat back in his seat and adjusted his jacket, his expression changing to a blank mask. “I had thought I was… Trusted. But—” He looked out at the rest of the bar, giving a subtle shrug before turning back. “Interesting to know they didn’t trust you either.”

“Well, you are _half_ right.”

His gaze snapped back to Waverly, the mask of indifference faltering for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“One of them didn’t trust me. Or rather, I think it is himself he doesn’t trust.”

“You know where Gaby is.” It wasn’t a question, and there was no response given. There didn’t need to be. Solo turned away again, a knot of pain forming in his chest. “Then I don’t see why you need me.”

Waverly settled back in his seat. The dim light shifted over his face. He tapped the ashes from the tip of his cigarette. “They are not together.”

“What?” Solo searched Waverly’s face, his aura, for the lie.

“He disappeared after what happened in Dubai.”

Solo digested this slowly. “Dubai, that was him?” 

“Yes. He has grown a great deal worse, if I am to understand it.” Waverly’s gaze was intent as it held Solo’s. He took back the paper and folded it to reveal the front page and set it between them. “I am sure the CIA knows as well as UNCLE what this threat is, what it’s capable of.”

Solo’s gaze fell to the headline on the newspaper, standing out even in the gloom. 

**MYSTERIOUS ILLNESS CLAIMS THOUSANDS.**

“There is only one hope for us, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said, his voice that same steady, assured thing Solo remembered. Indifferent, even in the face of the impossible. “And _that_ is Illya Kuryakin. And there is only one hope for _him_.”

“And you need me why?”

“I need you to convince her to go with you.”

Something inside him squirmed uncomfortably. “Sir—” 

“Your particular gifts, your former relationship. We need _you_ on this.”

Solo couldn’t remember the last time his gift had worked on Gaby. “I am no longer tasked to UNCLE, Sir. I don’t see how–”

“Surely this won’t be your first unauthorized vacation, Solo.”


	2. The Forsaken

Whether a person considered it “late at night” or “early morning” depended on their own mentality. Solo thought of it as Prime Time. It was prime for deliberation, prime for going unnoticed—

Prime for stealing. 

Though he had officially moved on from petty crime over a decade ago and into things requiring more… finesse, there was nothing quite like charming a lock open, or sweet talking a safe into letting him inside. It settled his mind. People all over the city could claim him as a late night visitor, but none of them knew it. 

Tonight, he ran his fingers over the window frame of an uptown apartment, listening to what the latches had to say. He gentled his touch, focused his mind, then hummed as he pressed and lifted. The window slid open without resistance. The safe was a little more difficult. It was quiet, stiff—proud, but in the end it succumbed, just like all the others. Not that he didn’t respect the safe in the morning. 

He’d had no intention of taking anything, he just wanted to lose himself in using his gifts, of being outside himself. The need to forget pulled at him, and neither his empty hotel room, nor the smoky bar off the lobby, had offered a chance at that. So here he was, cracking open a high value safe in the depth of the night. 

No, he hadn’t intended to steal anything, but the emerald earrings were calling him. 

Afterward, he needed a drink. 

…

There was a discarded newspaper on the bar as he took his seat, a ring of beer marring the words. He was tired of news, but the bold letters drew his eye. 

**Doctors Baffled—**

The bartender appeared with his cleaning towel and cleared it away, wiping at the hardwood and leaving it shining. “Spooky business, this illness.” Tucking away the towel, he wiped his hands on his apron. “What’s your poison?”

“Black Label,” Solo said. His reflection stared back at him from behind a half full bottle of _Courvoisier_. If only it was the headlines that haunted his thoughts. It wouldn’t feel nearly as much like weakness. “Barkeep? Make it a double.”

An attractive ginger-haired woman at the other end of the bar kept looking over at him as he sipped his drink. He took a moment to test the air, the lines, the connections. When he was certain there was no pull placed on him, he moved over and sat beside her. 

“A lonely hour,” he said, his voice smooth. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Only if I can buy _you_ one,” she returned with a smirk. 

Solo smiled. He liked her.

She came back to his hotel room and he made sure she didn’t regret it. It wasn’t difficult; she was an excellent partner. She did her part and, for a while, Solo didn’t need to think at all. 

Afterward, she slept, leaving him alone again. 

There had been a time when he had no longer been alone. He’d gotten too used to it, grown too comfortable. He’d begun to believe that he could have—

And those were exactly the thoughts it was useless to dwell on.

Yet…

His head rolled on his pillow as he looked to the watch sitting on the nightstand. The second hand ticked quietly around the familiar white face, undaunted by the cracked, smoky glass. Solo’s eyes followed its path, watching minutes pass by. Then he slipped out of bed and pulled his suitcase out of the closet. By the time the sun was creeping in through the eastern window, he had dressed, and all signs of him had gone from the room. He sat down on the bed, and Ginger stirred. He soothed a hand over her hair. She hummed and looked up at him with one eye. 

“Good morning, Red,” he offered. “I’m afraid I have to leave.”

She frowned. “S’early.”

“I know. It’s an unfortunate fact of my life.” He smiled and held up a small roll of bills. “Cab fair.” He set it on the side table. “Sleep as long as you want, order anything you like from room service. It’s all covered for the rest of the day.” He stood, straightened the bottom of his jacket. “And when Sanders shows up—”

She rolled over, propping up on her elbows and holding the blankets to her chest. “Who’s Sanders?”

“Don’t worry, he’ll introduce himself. When you see him, tell him I said I was taking a vacation.”

“ _Are_ you taking a vacation?”

He just gave her a suave smile, picked up his bag, and left the room.

Red turned to look at the roll of bills with a sigh. A pair of emerald earrings winked at her in the early light. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I put a little, non-plot related easter eggy type thing in here and I am curious if you saw it! Let me know!


	3. The Relinquished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These next few chapters will be much longer than the first two.

Gaby was exactly where Waverly had said she would be.

Bundled up head to toe in a bulky parka, she was working in an open-air garage — which seemed ludicrous considering the temperature — leaning over the open hood of some ancient vehicle he didn’t recognize. His mind’s eye recreated for him her expressions from memory, her hands running over different parts, her jaw tight until she’d found the problem. Her sly smile when she understood how to set things to rights.

The strength of sentiment bursting open inside him was unsettling. 

She stood up, straightening and stretching her back, but stilled part way through the motion, her demeanor becoming alert, her expression wary. Her head turned as she scanned the snowy landscape. When her eyes caught his, he started toward her, meeting her halfway across the ice encrusted street. 

There was no smile to greet him, merely her serious face turned up to his, those dark eyes of hers considering. He held her gaze until that growing well of sentimentality overcame him and he pulled her into his arms. The ferocity of her returned embrace touched the unsteadiness which had been haunting him since Waverly had sent him on this errand.

“It’s freezing out here,” he said with affected lightness. “Take me inside and offer me some tea.” With his hands on her shoulders, he shifted her away from him and took in the sight of her once more. Tilting his head toward the vehicle she had been working on, he added, “unless that thing is on rush order?”

She grabbed onto his parka with both gloved hands and gave him a shake, grinning — _finally_ — and showing him that dimple he remembered so fondly.

He made several pointed observations about the temperature as they walked together toward her… home, he supposed. It looked like a cross between a shack and a yurt, and he told her so as she opened the door. She chuckled as she ushered him into the somewhat warmer interior. His gaze swept over the small space, a tiny entryway, a cramped living room some might call cozy, thick tapestries covering the walls. 

“You should consider yourself lucky,” she said, tugging off her parka then offering to take his. He shook his head and kept the parka on, but unzipped. “It’s not even the depth of winter yet.”

“I don’t even want to consider it.”

She pulled off her thick mittens and tucked them into her parka’s pockets, but she was still wearing several layers of clothing, which made her look oddly bulky, and a maroon scarf wrapped around her neck. With a quick awkward smile, she led him back to the kitchen, another ‘cozy’ space with a narrow wooden table and a banked fire glowing in a primitive hearth. She filled a kettle with water and hung it over the embers before stoking them to life and adding wood. 

“How quaint,” he remarked, taking a seat at her table. Ignoring his comment, she continued to move about the small space, gathering the things for tea. She didn’t have quite her usual grace, and it nagged at the fear and anger he thought he’d compartmentalized. “Gaby, what are you doing here? You’re practically in the heart of enemy territory.”

She scoffed.

“You do realize that _Ulan Bator_ means ‘Red Hero,’ right?”

“Well then, they certainly won’t be looking for me here,” she said, then more serious, “I have my reasons. Besides, I’ve found purpose again.” Her slender shoulders lifted in a shrug. “It’s nice.”

“A purpose? What, fixing farm equipment?”

“Why don’t you just get to what you really want to say?” she demanded, setting her hand on the table and leaning into it as she stared him down. “I can sense it there, under all the talk you are trying to bury it with.”

His jaw flexed. This was _not_ why he was here. “This isn’t about me, Gaby.”

She took a deep breath, followed by a quick exhale. “We were only trying to protect you.”

“ _Protect_ me.” He practically spat the word. “From him.”

“Not just him. You—” The wail of the kettle cut her off, and she turned to scoop it off the fire with a folded dish towel.

“You didn’t trust me.”

Gaby shook her head as she poured boiling water over tea in two mugs. “You needed to keep working, Solo.”

It was his turn to scoff. “Oh, the world needs me is that—”

“ _Yes._ ” She set his cup down in front of him sharply, spilling a bit onto her hand. She wiped it absently on the mustard yellow cardigan she was wearing over her other layers. “You are very good at what you do. What we _all_ used to do. More importantly, you have the right intentions, even if the CIA doesn’t.”

His quiet, exhaled laugh was caustic. “So, you’re saying you left me behind so I could save the world in your stead, is that it?”

She took a sip of her tea and gave no response. 

“You could have let me know where you were.” He tried to ignore the way his chest seemed to squeeze tight.

“No. You know the CIA wants him as much as any of the rest. Wants to take him apart, study him so they can make a better version for their use.” Her voice shook, her jaw tightening. 

“You think I can’t block Jones’s gift? I’ve been hiding things from his kind my entire life.”

“And hiding it would have meant there was something _there!_ This isn’t a stolen painting, Napoleon! They wouldn’t have given up.”

He opened his mouth to rebut that statement, even though he knew she was right, but as she unwound the scarf from around her neck in the growing warmth of the kitchen, all arguments died on his tongue.

A shiny swath of scar tissue crawled up her long neck, stretching from the rise of her collarbone to touch the corner of her jaw. He knew a burn scar when he saw one, and swallowed as he stood to his feet. 

“ _Gaby—_ ”

“In the end, he decided he had to protect me too.” She folded the scarf carefully and laid it over the back of the chair in front of her. 

“You let him?” He tried for his usual cheek but only managed a weak imitation.

“He disappeared while I was in the hospital.” Her jaw flexed as she exhaled through her nose. 

He almost laughed. “I bet you were furious.”

A hint of a smile dawned on her lips. “I was, but then… something else came up that took priority.” Her hand came down to rest on her belly and, like the release of a lock cylinder finally turning under his fingers, Solo realize Gaby wasn’t wearing as many layers as he had thought. His eyes widened. A sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach had him taking a seat again, despite a faint desire to flee.

“So, now that _that_ is out of the way—” Gaby said, and Solo blinked, shifting his gaze away from that rounded belly to her face as she continued. “Why are you here?”

He frowned and turned away, trying to gather his thoughts. He reached out for his cup of tea and almost dropped it when the ceramic scalded his fingers. “Damn it!”

Gaby quickly soaked a cloth under cold water from the sink and came to sit beside him. She laid it over his fingers and the icy wetness eased the sting. Holding it there, she looked up at him expectantly.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just a little difficult to move past the part where you’re pregnant and living all alone here, in this…” He looked around at the small kitchen, a mix of primitive and modern. With a sigh, he studied her face—worry, fear, affection, all clamoring for a spot above his hurt and anger. “Does he know?”

“No. He left before _I_ knew.” 

“I thought they said he couldn’t—” Solo gave a little spin of his hand, balking at all the words his brain offered. “Because of the heat.”

“Apparently, this one was determined. Now…” Her eyes didn’t leave his, steady, insistent, her earlier question hanging between them.

Taking the cloth off his fingers and tossing it over her head into the sink, Solo sighed. “There’s a situation.” Her response was to lean back and cross her arms. It drew his eye back to her belly, but he pressed on. “THRUSH has come up with something that… It’s bad, Gabs.”

“Is that what is causing the illness?”

His nod was slight. “They are calling it the Orb. Some round, metallic thing… we barely understand what it is or how it works, but people are dying.” He sat back in his chair as the energy of seeing her again drained from him in the face of his task. “Waverly has managed to put UNCLE front and center, edging out the other organizations. He’s got the best he can find working on it but..” He finished the sentence with an uneasy expression.

“So, he wants me to use my gift on this… Orb?” She frowned. “It only works on broken or malfunctioning things. I can’t just make things do what I want.”

Solo took a slow breath, leaning forward and wrapping one of his hands around hers. “Right, you fix things. Not just _things_. Plants, animals… people.” Her gaze snapped to his. She was already shaking her head, taking her hand back from him. “The only thing we know this device is vulnerable to is heat- _intense_ heat. Temperatures that are beyond us outside of a nuclear deto—”

“NO!” Gaby shot to her feet.

“Gaby—”

She slammed her hands on the table, leaning over him, her eyes blazing. “I said no! I never should have told Waverly where I was. I can’t fix him, Napoleon!” She snatched his teacup and spun away, all but tossing the cup into the sink, before scrubbing at it violently. 

She stayed with her back to him long enough for Solo to suspect he had just been summarily dismissed. Then her shoulders slumped. Her voice was tight when she spoke. 

“You know I’ve tried. I’ve tried _so many_ times.” She wrapped a wet hand around her throat. “He has to be triggered in order for me to see what is broken, but when he is triggered, I can’t get close enough.”

“We need him, Gaby, we don’t have time to find another way. We’re talking a global level threat—”

She cut him off with a bitter laugh. “ _Illya_ is a global level threat.”

“What?”

“Waverly didn’t tell you that part? How much worse he’s gotten? Did you hear about Dubai?” She was facing him now and didn’t wait for him to answer. “The intensity of potential output is increasing exponentially, far beyond the numbers we first estimated. And every time that, that _switch_ , flips, it is more difficult for him to shut it down.” She ran her fingers over her scar. “He did this knocking me out of the way.”

“Gaby…” He had no other response. Standing slowly to his feet, he went to her, wrapping her in the circle of his arms and resting his chin on her head. After several synced breaths, she relaxed against him. 

“I still need to talk to him,” he said gently. She pulled away, her dark eyes resigned as she looked up at him. “I would—” he cleared his throat. “Even without the rest, I want to see him, but… I also think he has a right to know. Make the choice for himself.”

With a sigh, she turned, forcing him to take a step back. “I don’t agree. He doesn’t need the weight of this on him. It isn’t his doing, and it’s not his responsibility, but he will think that it is.”

Solo sidestepped that observation. Not that she was wrong, but they had both known for sometime that, if it really came down to it, Gaby would choose Illya over the world. The man had a guilt complex deeper than he was tall, but he still had a right to decide for himself what risks he would take. “Do you know where he is?”

The look she gave him was an odd mix of disapproval and dark humor. “If _your_ basal temperature had risen to over 125 degrees, where would _you_ go to hide?”

Solo tried to take that information in stride, despite the flash of distress that shot through him. “Good point.” He gathered up his parka.

“Not even going to stay for dinner?” Her sardonic tone pressed into him like a bruise. A realization clicked into place: he wasn’t the only one who had gotten used to not being alone.

“I’ll be back to see you,” he said. “If the world doesn’t end. They could probably use your help over there though, broken things or not. And—” his eyes skimmed over her, pausing on her stomach before quickly returning to her eyes. “They have shielders…”

She picked up her cup of tea, steam curling from the dark liquid, and crossed her arms with a shrug. “I’ll think about it.”

He paused again at the door, looking out the small window at the blowing snow. “Illya should have come here with you. You could use the warmth.”

She donned a sadly amused smile. “I miss his cold hands, actually.”

Solo smiled, trying for nonchalant but only coming up with melancholy. “See you around, beautiful.”

_“Auf Wiedersehen. Pass auf dich auf”_

When the door had closed behind Solo, Gaby looked down at the mug in her hand with a frown. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoy writing these two together, what do you guys think? I admit, I was trying to punch you all in the guts a little bit with this scene, did I succeed?  
> Thank you for reading! <3


	4. The Martyr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday, here's some more gut punches.

Solo dragged a handkerchief across his brow to wipe away the sweat, then replaced his hat in a vain attempt to ward off the blazing desert sun. Climbing out of the sand encrusted jeep that had brought him there, he took a moment to study the group of people silhouetted on the nearby hilltop. Craggy brown stone that rose from brown sand, backdropped by a cloudless, jewel-blue sky. 

From the midst of the huddle, a lone figure straightened to stand head and shoulders above the rest. He seemed to stare back at Solo, a hand settled on his hip, his other arm hanging loose at his side. Just when Solo thought this was going to end in a silent rejection, the figure separated from the group and started down the hill. Solo went to meet him. 

Illya Kuryakin hadn’t always been a bomb.

In fact, no one actually knew what his natural gift was. It had still been immature, underdeveloped, Illya still a small child, when the Soviets had seen a potential they craved and began trying to manipulate it. Solo had read the paperwork on the experiments, the operations, the psychological manipulation… Most of it had been redacted, but what remained was enough to tell him it had been inhumane. 

The KGB had not accomplished what they had hoped for. Illya could generate large amounts of heat, but he had little control over it once activated. His mental health had been too deeply affected: dissociation, bouts of rage and depression—They had wanted a weapon and had ended up with a hot mess. _Literally_.

They had only kept him from a lifetime in an institution because of their greed. It would have been a shame to _waste_ him. He had saved _himself_ from the brutal obscurity of a special forces blunt weapon by being incredibly intelligent and working hard to regulate his mangled gift.

Unfortunately, the damage they had done had been compounding beneath the surface, silently, secretly, all these years, until one day, one mission together, they had almost lost everything. It had all come to light then, but it was already too late.

But the _potential_ of Illya… it was something that governments all over the globe wanted to get their hands on. Which, Solo supposed, was how they ended up here. 

Solo studied his former partner as he came near. Illya looked tan but otherwise unbothered by the change in his climate. Solo remembered a time when heat had been an issue for the Moscow native. Now, he looked almost at home in the glaring sun. He had left the top two buttons of his white cotton shirt undone. Dust streaked his dry skin, and a wide-brimmed hat cast a swath of shadow over his eyes. His smile was exactly the same, always so reserved, but Solo had learned to read them years ago. This one was pleased, but cautious. 

“Cowboy,” Illya greeted as they met up beside a white awning stretched over a small stockpile of supplies. “Are you here for the CIA?”

Solo felt more of that godforsaken sentimentality swelling inside his chest and sought to keep it in check as he held Illya’s gaze. “I’m taking a break from them at the moment. Thought I’d find some warmer weather.”

Illya raised an eyebrow at that. “This is not the beach. You will not find any women in yellow dotted bikinis.”

Solo laughed out loud. “It is good to see you, Peril.” He reached out his hand and Illya’s arm twitched forward, then fell back again, fingers curling into a loose fist at his hip.

“That would not be a good idea.” His gaze studied Solo’s face before he added. “But it is good to see you too.”

He gestured toward the shelter of the awning, and they moved that way together. Solo had expected the shade to bring some relief, but without the sun beating down on him directly, it became apparent just how much heat was coming from the man standing in front of him. 

“How have you been?” Solo asked, false casual.

Illya crossed his arms and chuckled. “Come, see what we are working on.” He tilted his head toward the hill. “If you can handle another walk in the sun.”

“This used to be _you_ not that long ago.” He narrowed his eyes, pinching his linen shirt and pulling it away from his sweat-sticky body. “You could have some sympathy.” Belatedly he realized that was not the most understanding thing to say, but Illya’s response was to smile a little wider.

“I have much teasing to pay back, I think.”

They made their way up the winding path, past an odd formation of sand that looked like crude glass, through a short tunnel to the top. Several times along the way they were stopped by workers, who hurried up to Illya, asking questions or for instructions in quick, fluid Masri.

When they reached the top, Illya gave a slight gesture outward and Solo’s gaze followed. Several deep pits had been dug into the sand and huge, primitive looking rigs were moving enormous pots between them. People were everywhere, scurrying between each area, guiding pots or tending the fires in the pits. After several seconds of observation, Solo realized what he was looking at.

“A smelter operation?”

Illya nodded slowly, then came to a stop. “I am too much of a realist to think you have come only to see me,” he said. “And I suppose it was not all that difficult to reason out where I might be.”

“I tried a few other places first,” Solo offered but frowned as he looked back at his old partner, his friend, the man he had once thought of as- His thoughts hitched on the word but it was there all the same. _Family_. 

“Are you still angry?” Illya asked, as if reading his mind. 

“Yes.”

Illya nodded. Silence followed, many things left unsaid. One question in particular hung between them, but Illya didn’t ask it, he simply started walking again and continued the tour.

Based on their location, and the rudimentary materials used, Solo had expected a very rudimentary enterprise. What he found was a science lab under the desert sky. 

A village of tents and simple structures housing complicated operations, a multi-step process of tempering and testing different metal based alloys. It all led to the last step where they were pouring the molten material into deep molds formed in the sand. 

Solo tilted his head, taking in the shape of the molds with a frown. “I don’t understand. What exactly are you making? And why?”

Illya put his hands on his hips and stared out across the expanse of sand, squinting in the brightness. “It is difficult to believe that beyond that horizon is the sea,” he said, absently. “I am glad you are here, Solo. It is good to see you. Good to have this.”

There was something else different about Illya, Solo realized. The relaxed line of his shoulders, the lack of tension in his jaw and hands. Even at his most gentle, usually with Gaby, there had always been a tautness to Peril, a raw kind of tension. It was gone now. There was peace in its stead, but it was a resigned, almost fatalistic sort of peace. Solo turned back to the coffin shaped mold in the sand. 

“Peril, what the hell are you doing?”

Illya turned to him and smiled, a very Russian smile, and one tinged with regret. “I am sorry, Cowboy. I would have preferred no one to know. I would not be a burden to you in that way. But you are here now, and I find I am glad. Glad to say a proper goodbye.”

Understanding settled on Solo, stark and terrible. “No. No, _you’re not_ —”

“They have discovered a hole in the ocean floor. Just beyond that horizon. So far they have not found its full depth, but the pressure there is immense. Along with this casket, it should contain any latent triggers.”

Solo stared at him, face pale even in the heat. “Tell me you are joking.”

Illya peered over at him. “You think I would joke about this?”

_“Illya_.”

The Russian sighed. “This is the path I have chosen. This path I am _able_ to choose. They took the rest from me.” There was a remarkable lack of acrimony in the statement, advancing the creep of horror that was rising inside of Solo. “Every day, I am hotter. I am a danger to everyone, as I am now. Soon, I will be unable to drink water, but I still need it. This is the ending that was created for me, Cowboy, and when that time comes, this body, this power—I do not trust it. I must contain it.”

Gaby’s voice echoed through Solo’s mind. _“ **Illya** is a global level threat.”_

“There’s still—” He was going to say ‘hope,’ say ‘there’s still Gaby’s gift,’ but he couldn’t have Waverly’s confidence, not after talking to her, not knowing what he knew. With a sinking gut, Solo realized Illya was right. 

Some part of him wanted to speak to Illya of Gaby, tell him about the baby, but it would be cruel. He glanced at Illya. Heat was pouring off him, even in this climate. He remembered how Illya had rejected shaking his hand.

Even if he could, by some miracle, halt the progress of his own destruction… Illya couldn’t hold a child. 

Solo took a deep breath and looked toward the horizon. “There is something happening that I think you should know about. They’ve been calling it The Orb.”

Half an hour later they had settled on opposite sides of a low table, a broad tent stretched over their heads and the miracle of ice water held in Solo’s hands. 

“Are you still a crack shot, Cowboy?” It was an odd question after all the others he had asked so far.

“I keep my skill up.”

Illya nodded. “Good. Because if I do this, you will likely need it.”

“I don’t—” but he did. He understood _exactly_ what he would need it for. He cleared his throat, took a sip of his water. It was so cold it was as if it burned him. “UNCLE has snipers.”

Illya gave him a weighted look. “I would rather it was you.”

It was too much to ask. Solo knew it, knew Illya knew it, but he had asked all the same. And why shouldn’t he? Why couldn’t he ask too much of his best friend when far too much had already been asked of _him_?

“I will do this,” Illya said. “I will have alterations made to the casket. If I can not shut down the reaction, you put a bullet in me, right at the base of my skull.” He tapped a finger there as if Solo needed the direction. “That is the best chance of stopping the body completely. Then, just in case that is not effective, you can drop the container on me.” Each word was said with succinct practicality, as if they were laying out the plan for taking out a mark. “It is still not 100 percent, I was depending on the sea pressure to help. There is no way to test the container under the necessary circumstances. This will be- It should at least keep it to one continent.”

“You think it will be that bad?”

Illya just looked at him, his eyes piercing blue. 

Solo let out a hollow laugh. “I should know better than to question your math at this point.”

They were quiet after that. The ice in Solo’s cup had already melted.

“You will,” Illya began, his voice tight, subdued for the first time that day. He lifted his eyes, his gaze catching Solo’s and holding it with a desperate petition. “You will take care of Gaby? She thinks she does not need anyone, but it is not true. She… And now I have done to her the one thing she was most afraid of- I have left her. I have spent much of my life hating myself for many things, but that is the only one I will take to my grave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did that go? Are you wanting to bundle Illya up and take him home for cookies and tea with jam? How about our Sinnamon Roll Solo, is his broken heart showing? Because he tries very hard to hide it.


	5. The Frontline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! I hope you are all safe and well out there in this crazy world. Here is the next chapter.

UNCLE’s Orb Investigation facility was an odd collection of thick canvas tents, altered cargo containers, and a handful of quick-set metal buildings that did little to keep out the near arctic temperatures. Alexander Waverly had set up a workspace in one of these, a folding table for a desk, a small space heater rattling noisily in the corner. He looked up from the latest data printouts when the door to his makeshift office opened, his eyes widening. 

Gaby slipped inside, closing the door quickly behind her to block out the chill. Waverly stood to his feet—relief, delight, pride lighting up at the sight of her. Concern quickly brushed them all aside the moment he took in her protruding belly. 

That was certainly unexpected. 

“I’ve been getting that look from everyone,” she said. “You would think people weren’t even surprised to see me, just _this_.” She patted her stomach as she crossed the room. “I will be taking this chair.”

Waverly stifled his reaction, his faded blue eyes blinking only once. “Good to have you back, Teller. It is still Teller? No, erm, changes have been made in that department?”

“I will answer to Teller, that’s enough I think.” She lowered herself into the metal chair and leaned back, her hands folded in front of her. She looked around the room, made a bit of a duck face, then said. “I heard you had a situation happening and could use me. For _machines_. I will not tolerate any mention of fixing broken Russians.”

Her gaze was intent on his, and he knew there was no point in arguing with her when she had set her mind. She was here, that was enough for now. He nodded in response, sitting back on the edge of the fold-out table, then thinking better of it when it shifted beneath his weight. “Understood. There are several vehicles in the garage that could use your particular expertise. The cold and the urgency of our situation has led to a few incidents.”

“I can imagine. Luckily, I’ve recently gained some experience with vehicles in cold weather.”

They brought in the five-ton, steam roiling from beneath the hood. Gaby stood at the front, waving them forward as they maneuvered the huge military truck into position. Heat was radiating off the massive engine, and though it wasn’t on fire, Gaby had a strong sense that it had been a close thing. 

“Funny how freezing weather can cause overheating, right?” a mechanic beside her remarked. 

“I’m not complaining about the extra heat though,” another said, and they both laughed. 

Gaby ignored them and walked up to the rig, reaching out her hands, her fingers moving in a dance-like pattern through the heat that shimmered the air.

“Can you tell what’s wrong that way?” the other mechanic asked. “Fix it from here?”

“No,” Gaby replied. “I have to put my hands on it.”

“We better wait for it to cool down first then.” 

Gaby turned toward him, keeping her hands where they were. “Of course.”

A shout from the front of the building drew their attention.

“You will never believe who came in on the last transport,” a woman announced, striding into the improvised garage. With in moments, mechanics appeared from behind and beneath various equipment in order to be sure they were caught up on the latest gossip. “Agent Solo of the CIA.”

“What? Did the CIA send him or—?”

“I don’t think so, because guess who was with him?” She waited several beats for maximum effect. “ _Illya Kuryakin:_ defected KGB and UNCLE deserter.”

The reaction she had expected did not come. Instead, as if of one accord, her listeners turned to where Gaby had been, a heavy silence settling over them. She was no longer standing in front of the steaming truck. 

“Wait, what did I—”

The five-ton’s diesel engine roared to life, cutting her off and making the crew jump, hands flying to cover adrenaline spiked hearts and ringing ears.

Gaby’s head popped out of the open driver-side window, her cheek streaked with grease, her face indifferent. She smacked her palm against the door with a bang. “This one’s taken care of. Let’s get it out of here so we have room for the others.” 

The storytelling agent’s face went pale. 

UNCLE had set up a perimeter of thick reverbera-glass, both to demarcate the safety zone, and to assist in shielding the facility. Illya was peering through it, to the field where the Orb loomed huge and mysterious in the growing dusk. He was wearing a thick parka, special-made with the same material they used in firefighter’s uniforms— as lining. The parka look was largely for show, the coat’s purpose more about protecting anyone who might accidentally touch him. 

He certainly didn’t need to keep warm. 

He wore thick boots, but the snow around his feet was already melting. Solo and he wore spikes to keep from slipping on the packed-snow pathways. They were especially helpful in the wet ice that Illya left in his wake. His blond head was bare to the night sky, but he wore thick gloves on his hands, which encumbered his attempts to flip through the packet of information he was studying. Steam was rising from his hair and shoulders, any part of him where the light falling snow came to rest. 

Solo had taken up a position off to the side, his attention on Illya as the young scientist who had delivered the packet hovered nearby. 

“Sir,” he said in a stage whisper, watching Illya scowl at the data sheets. “The numbers and data have been checked and rechecked dozens of times.”

“They haven’t been checked by _him_.”

The man frowned. “I don’t see how that matters. These are the finest people in the field, and he’s—”

“KGB?” Solo filled in, finally turning toward him. “Hardly true anymore is it—” he checked the name on the man’s badge “—Davis. He defected.” Solo’s smile flashed white. “Tell you what, how about you bring us some water?”

“I’m a scientist, not an errand boy.”

Solo gave him his full attention then, letting his gaze sweep over the man’s face, and looked right into his eyes. “But you are the one who is _here,_ and I would like some water.”

Dr. Davis’s eyes were caught in that gaze. They went slightly unfocused; then he blinked. “Of course. Anything you need. I’ll—I’ll go get that for you.”

“Bring some for Agent Kuryakin as well,” Solo added. “And then look him up in your database.” He patted Davis on the shoulder and gave him a patronizing smile. “Expand your knowledge.”

Solo heard Illya tut as the man hurried away. “You could have just used proper manners to get the water, instead of forcing your charm on him,” his deep voice rumbled. Solo refused to admit that he may have missed being scolded in that mild tone Illya had a habit of using. 

“I didn’t want water so much as I wanted him gone.”

“I could use the water.”

“Yes, well, added benefit,” Solo returned, as if that hadn’t been part of his intention all along. “What do you make of this thing?”

“They have gathered a lot of information. This alloy seems similar to what I was creating but—mmm.”

“But? What do you mean ‘mmm?’”

“Don’t worry. I believe they are right, and heat is the way to kill it. The metal is supporting some type of quantum resonance.”

“Very specific.”

Illya exhaled a laugh. “It is part of _gift_ sciences, which is still imperfect, and more difficult to study than quantum mechanics. There are no specifics to _give_ you. It kills people. What else do we have to understand?”

“But you can stop it? Can you get close to it?”

Illya sighed. “Yes, I should be able to do both of those things.” 

The sky above them was a deep navy blue, but the floodlights overhead kept them from really seeing the stars. Solo felt time stretch, expand, then contract sharply as he stood there watching his friend, the weight of a sniper rifle pulling at the strap across his shoulder. 

“Tell me when everything is ready,” Illya said, breaking the moment. “I should probably keep moving.” There was a squelch as he lifted his foot, and Solo looked down to see that he had been standing in mud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Thank you for reading. Was the jumping around difficult to follow? I would love to know your feelings. Also, feel free to throw emojis (🔪🍅🪓) at me.


	6. The Orb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear reader. I hope today has met you with some decency. Mine has met me with a snow storm after just melting it all away yesterday.

The Orb was a huge, silver-like thing that hovered approximately four feet above the snow. No one had seen it arrive, no one knew who had placed it there, and no one could move it. It had no working parts that could be detected. It hummed constantly. 

The droning sound pervaded every corner of the complex. A subtle, thrumming undertone that could almost go unnoticed at first. It rose in pitch and volume as it drew closer to a killing cycle; the sound permeating the bones, castigating the nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. When it released the building energy, people all over the planet would become sick and within days, they would die. 

Those cycles were growing closer and closer together, and each time, more people were lost.

UNCLE, and those willing to work with them, had gathered those with gifts for blocking energy and stationed them around along the glass barrier, which was designed to boost their abilities. Still, they could only protect the immediate area, and they were growing tired. 

They needed to stop this thing now. 

At midnight, Solo climbed to the top of the crane perch, and unzipped the case he had been carrying across his shoulder. Black metal glinted in the stadium lights, the barrel icy cold. It was KGB issue, but Solo had used it before, and in the desert he had fired and honed it to within a hair’s width of accuracy. He didn’t allow himself to think about why it was important to have it as precise as possible. 

He wouldn’t need it. 

He kept telling himself that.

Gaby slid into a shadow just below the observation tower where Waverly and his carefully curated team of Scientists had gathered. She wasn’t thinking about Waverly though, or his gift for collecting people; she was thinking only of the man who was walking across the open field, haloed in light. 

He was a hundred meters away from her, his head bowed. His fingers fiddled at his side in what she knew was his attempt to relax as much as possible. An ache for him pierced her chest, and she reached out, unseen, to trace his silhouette with her fingertips. He was so close… so close, but so _very_ far. 

The child in her belly rolled, taking her breath, and she dropped her hand to feel it there. A little “bomp” tapped her palm. She pushed back gently, her eyes never leaving the man standing in the spotlight — alone. Her jaw tightened. She took a deep breath.

Illya closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing. He could feel the energy coming off the Orb but his body, his broken gift, simply absorbed it. This, he knew, was the other reason Waverly had felt he was the only person for this job, the part others didn’t really know about whatever his gift had been intended to do. He absorbed energy—thermal, kinetic, sonic, etc.—could even block it, when his control was good. Perhaps he should have the ability to harness it; it didn’t matter. All that mattered now was what it meant for this moment: not only was he able to generate enough heat to destroy this thing, he was one of very few who could get close to it without becoming its victim. 

It also made the mission that much more dangerous. More energy meant even less control. 

He exhaled.

The hum of the Orb pushed at him, but he had never been a man easily swayed. He pulled off his gloves, tossing them aside, and held out his hands, fingers spread wide, reflected in its gleaming surface. The vibration of it caressed his palms, seemed to trickle coldly down to his wrists. He made a gruff sound from his throat in response, then closed his eyes once more and turned his attention inward. He easily found the ball of rage he worked so hard to suppress, to keep bottled up where it couldn’t hurt anyone. Some part of him felt the shift of things. This was an ending, this was the final minute that his life had been headed for. He ignored the maudlin thought and released every barrier he had put in place against the destructive force lurking inside his body. 

Power exploded from him, frothing out in every direction like the pyroclastic flow of a volcano. Illya grit his teeth as he focused on reining it in, on directing the flow out through his hands. He thought of heat and pain, and his mother crying. He saw rubble and blood and battered people charred with smoke. He saw Gaby, in a hospital bed, surrounded in sterile white and beeping machines. He thought of fire. He thought of flames.

The steady snowfall above him turned to rain.

A wave of heat pulsed out from Illya, sweeping over the facility. The change in pressure rattled the windows that fronted the observation tower. The deep piles of snow slid off several of the corrugated metal roofs, one easily burying a line of motor sleds. 

And people watched — through monitors, through squinted eyes, through a sniper's scope — as the haze of heat rose and shimmered around man and orb. 

Illya was leaning in, his teeth bared.

The wind kicked up, rushing in from the tundra beyond them, icy and fierce, rattling the metal siding and whipping at the canvas tents. Swirling eddies of snow circled Illya’s feet, the flakes turning to tiny pellets of ice. 

The Orb’s hum tightened, rising in pitch until it was a piercing, metal on metal sound that echoed through the facility. It brought several people to their knees, clamping their hands over their ears; others fell unconscious. 

Illya grit his teeth and dug deeper, more heat, more energy, cracking open deep wells he had tried so hard to keep shut. 

The metallic surface began to glow — red, then orange, then white. It shifted back and forth, vibrating until it was a blur. Illya shouted with the effort of maintaining focus, of holding the output of energy on the path he set it on. The Orb fought back with shifting frequencies; they seemed to grate at his ears, his skin. His bones ached, his heart was pounding, the world around him faded until there was nothing but the _heat and pain and focus._

The screeching sound warbled as the metal alloy melted, becoming an off key whine. Then, with a powerful crack that carried far across the tundra beyond, the sphere split in two. The halves continued to hover, shaking and shifting independently, it’s maddening sound now twinned. 

Molten alloy, glowing yellow-white with heat, dripped from the sides of each half, dropping to melt through the crust of wet ice that had formed beneath them. With several strident pings, one half shattered, then the other. The pieces fell to the ground but Illya didn’t back off; he bowed over them, screaming into the void. The ice melted, the remains of the Orb disintegrated, mixing into the mud. 

In the observation room, the air of trepidation and suspense shattered. The scientists and observers shouted as their readings changed. Along the perimeter, the agents holding the shield were sighing, grinning and shifting their shoulders as the weight of the Orb’s presence lifted. Applause and cheering broke out across the facility, the sound haunted in the cold air. 

Only three remained with their eyes solemnly fixed on the center of the field where a lone man stood, like a sentinel, circled by ice and rain and rising steam…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Writing this part was probably the most difficult of the whole thing. I hope it went well. If you feel up to it, I would love to hear from you. (Also, is that ellipsis ending some comic book BS or what? Hahaha)


	7. The Fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, Dear Reader, the penultimate chapter!! I made a lot of last minute changes here so let's hope I didn't miss any serious typos! 😅 Hope you are doing well today.

Illya jerked back from where the Orb had been, yanking his feet from the thick mud that had congealed around them. Smoke and steam rose from his singed clothing, and he sucked in quick, sharp breaths as he brushed away the clinging ash; slipping, stumbling as he searched for more solid ground. 

The heat was still building, expanding inside him. It folded in on itself, increasing in density, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to imagine closing all the doors that he had opened to release it. It was no use. 

He stared down at his shaking hands, watching the heat that poured from his open palms like water, rippling in the icy air. Curling them into fists, he spun in a frantic circle, desperation rising as he searched for the mark he and Solo had set.

Solo had stretched himself out on the platform, his fingers settled over the trigger guard, as he watched Illya through the sniper scope. He instinctively moved the crosshairs from Illya’s face when he looked up, tried not to see the panicked expression. 

He followed with the sight as Illya scrambled for the mark they had set, the one that would put him directly below the containment unit that swung from the crane’s arm high above them. Solo held his breath as Illya stepped onto the mark and lifted his gaze to the tall, orange crane. “Come on, Peril. Shut it down.”

The wind was building; howling under the eves and rattling the windows in the observation tower. A machine in the corner sent out a shrill alarm, and Waverly turned as a scientist ran to check the readout. 

“The air pressure at the point of the event is increasing. There’s a huge storm cell building above us,” the man said, scanning over the data. As if to back him up, a roll of thunder reverberated through the space. 

“Evans,” Waverly said, his voice steady. “Send the order to evacuate all non-essential personnel.”

“What about you, sir?”

“Don’t worry about me, get your people out of here.” He turned back to the window, his arms crossed as his brows drew together in a frown. “This was my idea, I will see it through.”

Wind tore at what remained of Illya's clothing and whipped violently through his hair. Every muscle in his body rigid as he worked to make his body obey his mine. His shout of exertion twisted to a cry of agony as he began to glow from the inside, a soft orange that back-lit the veins and capillaries that ran beneath this skin. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t even slow it down. The thought swallowed him up, fear and despair a rising tide that only fed the fire raging inside him. 

This was it, it was going to take him. It would finally be over…

Relief mixed with heartbreak as an image of Gaby came to mind. Her smile, often cynical, was soft as she looked up at him, her hair spread across his pillow — No, if he thought of Gaby now —

His throat raw, he drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes as the light from his hands went white. 

“SOLO,” he yelled, his voice already raw. “ _NOW!”_

Gaby was already moving when she heard Illya shout for Solo. She blinked, then quickly scanned for him along the perimeter. Delayed understanding sliced through her and her steps faltered. Her heart seizing, she lifted her eyes to scan the upper levels, the roofs, the scaffoldings for the lights, before zeroing in on the crane. Sleet and wind were beating against her, but she could just make out a person’s form stretched out on the platform where the glint of a scope caught the light. Setting her jaw, she slid a hand under her belly and started to run. 

Solo had hesitated. Each passing second he told himself that Illya could do it, that he would be able to shut it down, and each second, Illya grew hotter, lost more control. At the sound of his hoarse shout, Solo exhaled and squeezed the trigger, shutting down every other thought in his mind, every feeling in his heart. He didn’t close his eyes. He owed the man more than that. 

The sound of the bullet firing snapped so much sharper in the cold night air, but Solo had waited too long — the bit of lead melted in the aura of heat that now enveloped Illya’s skin. Solo dropped the rifle and stared, his insides going cold. 

_Shit_.

Lightning cracked the sky, revealing the roiling dark clouds overhead in its flash of light. Sparks flew from the scaffoldings as it was struck, a shriek of sound as one of the huge stadium lights broke away and crashed to the ground. A moment later, Illya fell to his knees with a scream of pain, and a surge of energy pulsed out from his body like a shock wave. All the glass in the facility shattered, including the perimeter wall. The lights went out and every machine for miles whined down to a heavy, foreboding silence. 

Illya’s specially designed containment casket swung from now impotent cables, the crane engine dead. 

Solo stood up, his eyes on the scene below him, his guts churning at the sound of Illya’s agony. His heart was pounding in his ears, then he saw something that nearly stopped it altogether—

Gaby, running across the snow.

He spun around, ready to climb down, realized it would take too long, then glanced up at the cables running up to where the ominous casket swayed in the building wind. He yanked on his thick, canvas gloves to protect his hands. 

“Figure out how to drop that thing!” he shouted to the men in the control box. Then he grabbed hold of the cable and jumped. 

His bones were burning, his skin searing in pain. Pressure was building, growing denser and denser, stretching him… he could feel himself coming apart. 

_“Illya!”_

He heard his name through the rushing in his ears and looked up with bloodshot eyes. Gaby was there, her form shifting in the haze of heat dancing around him. A mirage — Gaby walking on water, a memory come to see him through to the after life…

But she was calling out, shouting his name, running toward him, her face in lines of determination. 

_Not a mirage._

He gasped. Dread overwhelmed him and his body shook as he dropped his glowing hands to the ground beside him. “No, no, please! God, no no no—” he didn’t know what language he spoke or if he spoke the words aloud at all. Then she was there, impossibly, sliding to her knees in front of him. 

“ _Nyet,”_ he moaned, but any tears he might shed were long dry. “ _Pozhaluysta, nyet_ …”

Solo was running. 

The hellish heat burned his lungs as he fought for breath. He wasn’t going to make it. Horror gripped him as he watched Gaby disappear into the blinding glow of heat. Far above him a shout of warning rang out, followed by the twang of cables, but the roar of the casket falling through the air didn’t slow him down anymore than the heat blistering his skin. The only thought in his head was _no, no-no-no!_

Gaby smiled at him. She had lost her hat and her hair swirled around her and Illya’s faces as she cupped his cheeks in her hands. “ _Vse budet khorosho, lyubov' moya,_ ” she said gently. _Everything will be fine, my love_.

The casket hit the ground, the impact ringing out even in the building storm, enclosing them inside.

High in the control center, Waverly closed his eyes, covering his mouth with his hand, as he bowed his head. 

Solo slid in the snow, his arm instinctively flying up to protect his face as the impact of metal on ice and half frozen earth reverberated around him, _through_ him. Dropping his hand, he stared at that dark mass, choking on his breath, his heart stuttering, his blue eyes wide. 

People were running forward, wanting a closer look, all of them shouting at once, frightened, confused, curious, _horrified_. The temperature in the air had dropped, icy wind pushing in from all sides, even as a spot of the dark alloy turned a deep cherry red. 

“Oh, God,” Solo breathed, taking a quick step back, still struggling for air over the shock pressing in on his chest. “Get back!” he shouted, turning toward them and waving his arms. “It’s not over! You need to get out of here and find cover! _NOW_!”

As if to underpin his words, the casket emitted a loud creak, followed by a sharp clang that rent the air. 

Chaos erupted as the crowd fled. 

Solo remained. Unable to fathom a moment beyond this one, he turned back to the monolith that had enclosed his friends. The alloy Illya had created groaned and shifted, that glow of cherry widening, brightening at its center from red to orange to searing gold.

Thunder crackled overhead, the wind harsh on Solo’s blistered cheeks as he waited for the casket to fail. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, okay, I give you permission to throw things at me. Also, emotional Solo is so hard but so satisfying if you can get it right. Do you think I managed it?


	8. from this minute now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to the end of our little journey. I hope you enjoy this last section and that you have an excellent day.

Illya was in the dark. 

For the first time in so long, there was blackness behind his eyelids. Something had changed, something inside him was altered. It ached, but in a good way. Relief, like a dislocated shoulder after being set back in its socket. _What had—_

Memory came rushing in and he gasped for breath on a sob.

_Gaby_.

The weight of her body was still there, and he dug his fingers into the mud at his sides to keep from reaching up to touch whatever was left of her. He squeezed his eyes tighter, as if he could use them to close out the entire world, shut out this moment and everything beyond it. His lungs constricted, a band of sorrow tightening across his chest. Fury and crushing agony swept through him, rage glowing hot deep inside him, but it didn’t ignite. Illya clenched his jaw, constraining his cry of anguish behind grinding teeth. 

A clang of metal rang from overhead, reverberating through the enclosed space. Illya heard voices outside the shield he had intended to be his coffin. They were going to lift it. The world was saved, not because of him, but because of Gaby, and now there was nothing left of it that mattered. 

He had been prepared to die, but he had never been prepared to lose her. Of all his nightmares, this was the worst of them come to life. 

_Just leave it, he wanted to say. Leave me here with her. Entomb me in this place where I destroyed what was most precious to me._

Creaking metal, shifting mud. Then there was light on the other side of his eyelids, but he didn’t open them. He did not want to see. Voices filtered to him, clamorous and discordant. Then Solo’s choked laugh, too high pitched and out of breath. 

The weight on his chest shifted, and he dug his fingers deeper into the mud as he tried to shake his head. 

“ _Ostav' yeye—”_ He attempted, the sound hoarse from his ravaged throat. 

_Leave her, please. Leave us both._

“Illya.” Cool fingers touched his face. “Illya, open your eyes.” 

That voice… it was _impossible_ , but he obeyed immediately. His dry eyes stung with the effort of bringing the face before him into focus. This could not be real. Gaby’s hand caressed his cheek, and he gasped, reaching up with muddy fingers to seize her wrist, feeling the soft skin and delicate bones there. He trembled with a sob as he registered her smile. 

“Get some water!” A voice shouted. “Find a medic! And bring blankets. Definitely blankets.” 

Illya touched Gaby’s face, leaving a line of mud across her cheek as he pushed her hair away to get her into the light. His other hand slid up her bare waist to her back, dragging mud over naked skin, bits of grit and slick clay cruelly coming between her and his fingertips. She was real. Undamaged. _Alive_. He could touch her. 

“How?”

The word was a croak of sound, but it made Gaby’s smile widen. A hot tear fell to glide over his dry, _cold_ cheek. She took his hand in hers, kissed the muddy palm without hesitation, then dragged it down to smooth over her belly. Illya spread his fingers over the roundness of it, his lips parting in an unspoken question. 

“I had a little help,” she said, her voice watery. “Apparently, this little one doesn’t want to grow up without a father.”

Illya’s face put on a full display of his process: confusion to realization, to shocked understanding. Gaby laughed and kissed his stunned mouth, and Illya inhaled a small cry through parched lips as he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her back. 

Solo was shaking, his lungs seized in his chest as he stumbled forward and went to his knees beside his partners. Illya and Gaby both turned, and the two men locked eyes, both sets red-rimmed, Solo’s revealingly wet. Illya hesitated, then reached out his hand. They clasped arms, squeezing tight, and Illya’s gaze shifted to where their skin met. Solo saw the expression of relief cross his face. Gaby took hold of his other hand, gripping it tightly.

The wind had died down, leaving fat snowflakes to fall gently onto their hair, their skin, their joined hands, but they didn’t move, the three of them just looking at each other in turn. Another figure appeared then, dragging a blanket over the couple. 

Waverly. 

His face was drawn, strained in a way that Solo had never seen before. His gaze ran over each of them searchingly, and he knelt down to tuck the blanket snuggly around them. That gaze rested on Illya for a long moment. 

_“Spasibo,”_ Waverly said, giving Illya’s shoulder a quick, hard squeeze. Then he looked at Gaby, who gave him a small nod, before pulling away, settling back into his reserved demeanor. “We will get you out of here soon. Some trouble with the sleds. Probably best to stay where you are for the moment until we can assess your injuries.”

Solo scoffed as he watched the man walk away, then yelped as Illya yanked him down into the mud with them. He grimaced at the cold, wet squelch. Gaby laughed, the sound so light that it told the tale of all the heaviness that had come before it, and she wrapped her arms around Solo’s head, laughing as she cried into his hair. 

“You realize,” Solo said, his voice hoarse with tears he would later vehemently deny. “You are both lying here completely naked.”

“Is okay, Cowboy, you can protect us,” Illya said. “Although, I am getting a little cold.”

Gaby chuckled, cuddling him closer. 

Solo tried for a smirk, but what appeared instead was a wide, uninhibited smile. “What? In these temperatures? I thought you were Russian?”

Illya’s deep, raspy laughter echoed to the sky. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay the question I am most worried about: deus ex uterum? Or did it make sense in the end? I will be most curious, if anyone rereads, if they can see it better or if it was really just obvious to you all along!
> 
> And I forgot to ever mention that the title is from Open Your Eyes by Snow Patrol. 🥂
> 
> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you are all doing well out there. I have been struggling with an injury that has messed with my ability to type but I am still working on stories to share. What do you think about this start? Is it too ambitious or is it enough to make you want to keep going? Let me know!


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